


The way it was supposed to be

by amarmeme



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Chantry Sister Trevelyan, Dramatic Gestures, Elthina Criticism, F/M, Holding Hands, Kissing, Love Confessions, Missed Connection, Misunderstandings, Prince Sebastian, Reluctant Inquisitor, Reunions, Sex, The Chantry (Dragon Age)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-07
Updated: 2020-09-07
Packaged: 2021-03-07 01:06:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 7,160
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26328352
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/amarmeme/pseuds/amarmeme
Summary: Lydia Trevelyan was given to the chantry at a young age. She picked Kirkwall, and became a chantry sister there in time. She grew up with Sebastian Vael, becoming close friends until the chantry explosion sent them down different paths.Sebastian Vael never forgot about Lydia Trevelyan, knowing in his heart that her death wasn't how it was supposed to go.
Relationships: Female Trevelyan/Sebastian Vael
Comments: 45
Kudos: 18
Collections: Black Emporium 2020





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [SeigePhoenix](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SeigePhoenix/gifts), [storiofmylife](https://archiveofourown.org/users/storiofmylife/gifts), [tejaswrites](https://archiveofourown.org/users/tejaswrites/gifts).



Lydia Trevelyan hardly looked the part of her noble house. Much to the dismay of her golden-maned father, a shock of brown had adorned her infant head at birth, never lightening, instead rebelliously curling about her shoulders as a child. The ice-blue Trevelyan eyes were absent as well, replaced with a warm, peculiar amber that riled the nursemaids. 

“Can't trust those eyes; a demon's mark,” they'd say behind closed doors. “That one's meant for trouble.” 

As it was, little Lydia never had the proper chance to prove her eyes were the hallmark of a demonic plot or not. Upon the respectable age of ten, they ensconced the child to the Chantry, citing a largely out-of-fashion tradition among the noble houses to dedicate the third child to the Maker’s service. Lydia, by then fully aware of the source of the slights she received, pleaded to at least have the right to pick where she was to be offloaded. Her father, ever eager to have it all concluded (ten years daily was long enough for a child to remind him of the folly of women) acquiesced, the first time in his long career as Lord. No one could recall another occasion when Lord Trevelyan had given in to the wishes of another when it didn't suit himself. 

By fifteen years' time, little Lydia was Sister Lydia, and no one doubted the character of her eyes. They were as warm as her heart, which ached for the poor orphaned children that came after her and the mistreated elves in the city's alienage. Lydia's superiors praised her gentleness and grace, born of humility; the best kind. When she'd pointed at a map all those years ago, she'd picked Kirkwall only for its distance from home. She’d considered the balance of her father’s tight purse strings and his inclination to see her swiftly gone. Now she recognized her youthful determination as a kind of dark luck. Kirkwall had not been touched by the Blight, but its corruption was reaching a fever point. 

“Is there nothing for it?” Lydia asked. She dipped the copper watering can in a trough, then carried it back to the elf's waiting hand. “I thought the Champion was helping them reach an understanding.” 

“Hawke's already done so much,” the elf mused over her small plot of flowers. The daisies really did brighten up her small corner of the world. “If anyone can do it, it's Hawke. But I never understood why she has to. Isn't that what your Grandmother is for?” Merrill wiped her hands on the edge of her tunic, then her brow. A small bit of dirt marred her delicate vallaslin. Lydia pulled a well-worn kerchief from a concealed pocket and offered it to her friend. 

“Grand Cleric,” she corrected. “And normally yes, the Grand Cleric would seek to make peace. I can hardly understand it myself. I always have to press you for details when the Chantry ought to be involved.” 

Merrill handed back the kerchief and pressed her hands together. “I wonder why you don't ask Sebastian. He's around Hawke more often than I am.” 

Lydia found it impossible to answer fully, and therefore felt unable to answer at all. She folded the cloth and hid her hand behind her habit; her fingers naturally found the small token concealed there. As usual, Merrill didn't press, rather found the conversation at a natural end and turned to her door. Being friends with such a person was entirely too easy at times. Lydia worried she got away with more than she should. 

Lydia grew introspective returning to the Chantry. Another small pebble of guilt dropped to the pit of her stomach, forming with its fellows a mound of doubt that was beginning to ache. Merrill's question turned over and again in her mind, and as much as she tried to ignore it, Lydia kept coming back to how she ought to have responded. Wandering through the markets, the lone sister appeared deep in reflection. Given the current climate in the city one would have assumed she contemplated lofty matters of faith and the bounds of duty, but in truth, Lydia was afflicted with misplaced affection. 

_Were it so simple,_ she would have said. _Sebastian and I are like siblings. No. Maker, no. Sebastian_ _and I are too similar... No. Sebastian and I came to the Chantry in similar ways. Yes,_ she thought, _except his family is deceased and I wouldn’t mind terribly if mine was. He felt the loss of a mother and filled it with proxy; I feel no loss at all._

_If I were to question the Grand Cleric... You see, the Grand Cleric is like his mother and savior all in one, and while I must respect her authority, I don't respect her decisions. Why does that matter, you ask? We are close; raised together, grew up together. I can’t hurt him. It’s just that I have so much doubt and he has an abundance of faith. And I don’t want to see that look in his eyes when I suggest his adopted mother is failing us all._

The truth about Elthina seemed too hard for Sebastian to bear. Each day at prayers the Grand Cleric asked for resolution from the maker. Lydia struggled. Resolution was the Grand Cleric’s to give. If no one would rein in the Knight Commander and the rebel mages then they should all fear the worst. Starkhaven’s chantry had already fallen. Ferelden’s Circle Tower had been rocked years ago. It seemed Kirkwall was next. 

Lydia returned just in time to catch Sebastian as he vaulted out the large steeple doors. Adorned in his white armor, the bow of his grandfather strapped to his back, he smiled at Lydia’s approach and cooled his heels just long enough to greet her. 

“Lydia,” he teasingly admonished. “Your presence was missed at mid morning prayers. Elthina hoped you'd lead us today. She asked me where you'd gone.”

“The alienage,” she said. Lydia watched her hem as she climbed the stairs, glad for an excuse to hide her surprise. Elthina had not called for her to lead prayer in months. Not since the incident.

“The maker smiled upon us when he sent you.” 

Lydia reached Sebastian's side and playfully swatted his unadorned arm. “You tease -- I'm about as maker-sent as you are. Though I didn't have nearly as much fun in my youth.” He shook his head, embarrassment rising prettily on his perfect face. Andraste surely had a hand in that. No man could have been that handsome yet so chaste. Lydia pushed him back a step, observing his choice of outfit. “Or as much fun now!” She wagged her finger up and down, “Where are you off to? I never see you anymore.”

“Hawke asked for me -- apparently it's urgent. I feel compelled to help her.” 

Lydia fought a disappointed sigh. Sebastian had felt compelled for years. She almost couldn't picture what it had been like _before_ the Champion had answered his prayers and helped avenge his family. What chance did she stand to win his attention when there was such a woman as Marian Hawke? Lydia hid the jealousy easily at least; years of childhood disappointments prepared her to mask almost any emotion. “Please be careful. I hear there's unrest at the Gallows.” 

Sebastian sought a hand and squeezed it. His grin on another would be wanton and wicked. Fifteen years ago the grin _would have_ indicated trouble of the most scintillating type, now it heralded honest adventure.

“For you I will,” he said, and Lydia's heart squeezed tight. “We will catch up this evening, I promise.” 

Another squeeze on her palm and he was off, ready to save the city and impress his friends. She sighed and gathered herself. Elthina wouldn’t care for her depressed state. 


	2. Chapter 2

Sebastian peered over the edge of his balcony, observing the swirling waters of the Minater, reflecting on the news he’d heard from Ferelden. Somehow, the Divine was gone. Killed cruelly at the hands of a non-believer. He dipped his head woefully and watched the currents formed by river water rushing around a large rock. It was an apt reflection of how he felt now, stuck in place while the rest of the world carried on despite him. Kirkwall was in the past, but Sebastian felt he was the only person left in Thedas who still cared about the people who had died in the Chantry. This business with the conclave only brought up those feelings of helplessness in the face of loss, only on a larger scale. 

Though nothing could ever compare to the loss of two of the most important people in his life. Part of him still felt that something was amiss, that it was not meant to be this way. His head knew he had to move on, but his heart could not. 

It really was for the best that Anders was dead. Because otherwise Sebastian would have razed the city to the ground for what the man had done to Elthina and Lydia. 


	3. Chapter 3

Lydia coughed weakly, pushing her hands into her armpits, wishing away the bitter cold. The wind was possibly worse, cutting across her face and driving needles into her skin. She was not handling her role as Herald well. The conclave had been filled with skilled warriors and mages, and somehow she survived. A useless Chantry Sister, thrown out of her own household at a young age, only driven from the Kirkwall Chantry that morning . 

She shivered, not only from the cold but the memory of the Chantry engulfed in magic so powerful the city shook for days on end. She felt it now, the rippling aftershocks of fallen rock, the heat of the fires in Lowtown, the awful taste of burnt sewage inhaled with every impossible breath. They were all gone, and somehow she avoided the Maker’s cruel hand. She wandered the streets alone, searching for anyone of authority. The hurt and wounded kept coming to her, pleading for her help, as if Lydia was anything but a pretender in a habit. 

“How can you believe in the Maker now?!,” she screamed out. The people muttered curses under their breath, prayers. Useless prayers. “Why would he let his most faithful perish? What did they do to deserve that fate? None of us are his children!”

Wolves, there were wolves closing in on her. She tripped and fell face first into ash.

No, it was wet against her frozen cheeks. This was snow. She was not in Kirkwall, but the drifts outside of Haven. She’d set off an avalanche and crawled out the other side of a mine. She walked alone. 

The edges of her mind were duller than they’d ever been. How long had she been trudging through the snow, pursued by what seemed a pack of wolves? If they came for her, she would lie down and let them end it. There was nothing Lydia could do to protect herself. Even if she'd had her sword, she was no better than a small child at wielding it. Her mark perhaps would scare a wild creature a way for a time. But even that was inconsistent at best. 

A shout. A distant shout from a familiar voice. Was she to the point of imaging voices? Was that the usual way of exposure? 

“The Herald!”

This was familiar. A man wearing a fur mantle and a woman with long legs and long strides gaining on him. Cullen. Cassandra.

Lydia fell to her knees in relief. 

She still did not believe in the Maker. 

  
Rest and daily walks along the battlements returned some of her health. It was what she would have prescribed to one of her charges had they suffered the same fate. Rest to heal the body and exercise out of doors to restore the mind. On top of the wall, the wind whipped against her face, blowing hair across her eyes. Varric escorted her to a corner well away from prying eyes. 

A woman, dark-haired and fair in complexion stood at the edge of the wall, peering over at the Inquisition workers below. The wounded were still being tended to, and soldiers ran through their circuits as if Haven had never happened. As if the routines were exactly the same, despite their losses, despite their retreat. 

Lydia cleared her throat. She did not want the Champion of Kirkwall judging those people below. They had been through so much already. 

The Champion turned, bright blue eyes critical and shrewd, observing Lydia as Varric made introductions. It was hard to believe they’d all been in Kirkwall at the same time, running in separate circles, Sebastian the link in their distantly connected lives. Merrill too. Varric did not know that, and the Champion had never heard of Lydia before. The only people in the Inquisition who actually knew where Lydia had come from were the hands of the divine. It was no one else’s business besides her own. The hands had been rather persuasive in the jail cell though.

“I’m here on Varric’s behest,” the Champion said. Her lips shaped the words prettily, her soft mouth a pleasant, natural red. “He told me you met Corypheus, though I swore we’d already killed him.”

Lydia blinked, shaking her head. Yes, they were here to consult on Corypheus. She’d only taken the meeting at the slim chance the Champion had information on what happened to Sebastian. But she could not imagine a way in which to inquire after him without tipping her hand.

“He is very much alive,” she assured, folding her hands in front of her. It was a habit from her life as a sister that she could not shake. “Any advice you have would be welcome.”

The Champion rattled off several more witticisms. There was not much to glean from the exchange, and Lydia felt disappointment shoulder its way into her heart. If this woman could not offer anything useful, _the fabled Champion of Kirkwall,_ what hope did she have to save the world? Lydia could not even use a sword. 

“I wonder,” she mused, after the conversation reached a natural pause. “Do you have any other contacts that would be helpful in aiding the Inquisition?”

“You wonder too much,” the Champion warned, glints of anger in her eyes, fingers itching to touch her daggers. “My companions have done enough.”

That was the end of the conversation. Lydia shrugged nonchalantly, as if it really did not matter what contacts the Champion had. She did not wish to have a connection to the woman anyway, though really, she should have been grateful that Sebastian felt so indebted to her. If not for his involvement in the Gallows, he too could have perished in the Chantry. 

It was a small enough reason to be civil. 


	4. Chapter 4

“The Inquisition has received a letter of friendship from Starkhaven,” Josephine said, waving her pen in the air. 

It had been three weeks since the business in Redcliffe and the closure of the breach. Word had gotten out across Thedas, and letters poured in to the ambassador. Lydia's heart seized, and a chill ran along her skin, hairs lifting along her forearms. 

“Who is it from?” Lydia asked cooly. “Who rules Starkhaven now? I haven’t had a spare moment to keep up on Marcher politics.”

It was hope, wishful thinking. Leliana caught her gaze, mouth quirked and eyes dangerously sharp. How did she disassemble so quickly? A simple question and already the spymaster knew exactly the angle she was getting at. 

“Prince Sebastian Vael recently reclaimed the throne,” Josephine replied. “He extends his hand in friendship to the Inquisition. It may be in our advantage to accept an offer from one of the most prestigious Marcher cities.”

Lydia licked her dry lips. He had done it after all, reclaimed his right to the throne. Sebastian had told her many times how he’d felt conflicted. Should he pursue his faith, stay true to the pledge he’d made to the Maker, or return to Starkhaven and pursue the path fate had dealt with the death of his family? There had been many nights of discussion, serious debates on what constituted the more righteous path. Lydia knew he talked about these concerns with the Champion as well. He’d even intimated once that a connection between Kirkwall and Starkhaven would have been a mighty alliance. Lydia had felt sick at it and begged off to retire early that evening, refusing to let him walk her back to the women’s quarters at the pretense of how it might look. 

“Inquisitior,” Leliana said. “Your thoughts on the matter?”

Lydia looked up from the war table, which she’d been staring at. There was a small token in her hands at her back, and her thumb smoothed over the worn surface. She had not even realized she grabbed it. 

“I could send emissaries,” Josephine suggested, ready to cross this insignificant detail off her long list of concerns. 

“Could I --,” She bit her lip. “Should I send a message in response? I knew Prince Vael once.”

Her ambassadors provided a set of looks that were so varied Lydia laughed. Josephine may have thought her unwell, eyebrows raised in skepticism. Cullen exhaled sharply, eager to move past any connection to Kirkwall. Leliana only smiled beneath her hood, an impression that suggested Lydia would be cornered outside of this room, pressed for more detail. Subtly, of course. 

Josephine spoke first. “By all means, Inquisitor, if you have a relationship with the prince, then I encourage you to take advantage of it. I will gladly offer placement of a few emissaries as I mentioned.”

“Fine,” she said. “I will do that. To the next item, please. I didn't mean to derail us.”

Nonplussed, the ambassador continued with her list. What the nature of most of those items were, Lydia could not recall. 

  
Letter writing was tricky, she decided, and went to Varric for his assistance. There was no point in keeping up the pretense that she had been in Ostwick prior to the conclave. Josephine and Cullen knew now that Lydia was acquainted with Sebastian, and as the circle of confidants grew larger, Lydia only wanted to share more about herself. It was lonely being a symbol, and as much as her privacy mattered, Lydia missed easy companionship like she’d once had with Merrill and Sebastian. 

Varric was stationed at his usual spot, before the fire at the keep’s entrance. It was a silly place for a fire, but Skyhold was full of interesting quirks. Lydia sat at his table and sought his attention with a cup of ale, drawn fresh from the tap. 

“You’re going to ask me for something,” he said, palming the ale regardless. 

“Tell you something first.”

He shook his head and leaned back in his seat, drawing back a sip before indicating with a hand that she better get to it. 

“I’m from Kirkwall,” she said, tapping the tabletop. “Before the conclave, I was a Chantry Sister there.”

“No shit.” It was not a surprised exclamation. 

“You knew?” 

Varric sighed and sat his chair back down. The ale was set aside in sacrifice for making a point, hands occupied in gestures. 

“I recognized you straightaway,” he started. Lydia felt a blush rise on her cheeks. He’d known since the start. “Hawke always dragged us to the Chantry for one reason or another. You’d think she was a believer for how often we’d be stuck waiting in the pulpit. Chantry Boy had a part in it, but I think she just liked making Elthina squirm.”

Well there, she and the Champion did have something in common. 

“You stuck out, all that hair and those eyes. And besides, Chantry Boy talked about you a lot.”

She swallowed air, choking like an idiot. She coughed her way through the next words. “... he did?” 

“Yea,” Varric smiled. “He was only suffer-able in those moments.”

Lydia buried her face in her hands, unable to get past the fact that Varric knew. And that meant the Champion did too. She felt sick, stomach roiling. The Champion had refused to answer her question about her companions, knowing full well that Lydia was acquainted with at least one of them. Was it because Sebastian was connected to the Champion romantically? Is that why she’d said no, quite clearly, to reaching out? If Sebastian talked about Lydia regularly enough to feature on Varric’s list of his least insufferable moments, then did the Champion actively dislike her? Lydia had never been a threat. When it came to Sebastian Vael’s devotion, the list went: Andraste, the Maker, Marian Hawke, Elthina. 

This was possibly worse than Lydia could have ever imagined. 

There was no way she was asking Varric any of these personal details. He may have been her friend, but he was Hawke’s _best friend._ She could not sit there and humiliate herself any further. 

“Excuse me.” She shot to her feet and raced away before Varric could stop her. 

“Inquisitor,” he called out. “Wait a minute --”

She was well past earshot at that point. If being a sister under Elthina had taught her anything at all, it was how to effectively avoid conflict at all costs.   
  



	5. Chapter 5

Leliana stepped into her quarters. Lydia knew it was the spymaster for two reasons: the door made a sound but the footsteps didn't, and Leliana had given her fair warning earlier at the war table. A little kernel of satisfaction bloomed in her chest as Leliana called out. Finally, it seemed like she was learning something as Inquisitor. Even if it was as minor as reading people. 

"I'm not fit company," she echoed back in response to the call. Lydia slumped against her writing desk, face in a hand. Leliana crossed past her gaze and pulled a chair opposite. "My mother would have pinched my side for this posture." 

"I won't, but Josie might."

Lydia tried to smile. She really did. It seemed that before this Herald business, before the conclave and the Chantry explosion, before all that, she could easily conjure any expression suited to the situation at hand. Now she simply felt too tired to will her face to do anything. 

Lydia pulled the token out of her pocket and placed it on her desk. Perhaps it would provide inspiration. Well-worn, it was hard to discern the face of Andraste on one side, but the outline was there. Leliana recognized it straightaway, eyes latching on the item like a key to a hidden chamber full of sharp knives. 

"I thought you were a non-believer," Leliana said.

Lydia rolled her eyes toward the spymaster. 

"As much as anyone is allowed to be in this world."

"Yet you carry this symbol at all times."

The story was a sorry one, a young girl thrown into the Chantry, a young man who'd experienced the same. Over time they became friends, joined in their distaste for their families. The young man acclimated better than she would have wagered, believing in the Maker's redemption. She, having never sinned a day in her life aside from an occasional odious thought against her parents, couldn't see the point. There was nothing to atone. Their relationship grew regardless, the pair becoming great confidants. One year, the girl, now a young woman, admitted she'd never received so much as a fig for her birthday. The young man was aghast, and before the day was through bought her a gift: a token of Andraste's love. For though her parents failed miserably in that regard, she was surely loved by the Maker's bride. 

Lydia told this story to Leliana reluctantly, leaving out any real intimate details. Although she was forced into a position of prominence in the Chantry as its Inquisitor, there was little desire on Lydia's part to claim the Chantry had much to do with her upbringing. It was a matter of course, but she preferred to think she had raised herself from the point of ten on. 

After, Leliana observed Lydia for an indiscriminate amount of time. She was so bone weary that a solid minute of stark measurement was beyond her concerns. Let the spymaster see her bare; there wasn't any place for pretense with a half-descent spy anyway. 

"Let Josie handle the message," she said at last. 

As much as it pained Lydia to admit, something as simple as reaching out to an old friend was now a huge task, impossible to conquer. Perhaps there was wisdom in letting Josie handle the arrangements for emissaries and offering pleasantries, leaving out Lydia's identity altogether. He'd been happy to help not knowing she was there. If her guess about the Champion was right, then it mattered very little whether Lydia made an effort to contact him or not. His heart was already tied to another. 


	6. Chapter 6

Sebastian received a cordial response from the ambassador of the Inquisition. He read the letter with a sense of surety. Emissaries were to be dispatched. If there was a need, the Inquisition hoped to count on their new friend in Starkhaven. If the reverse were true, the emissaries would see to it. He kept scanning -- pleasantries, a signature, and ... the post script made his stomach lurch. 

> _It is my understanding that you are familiar with our Inquisitor from youth. Inquisitor Trevelyan sends her regards for your well-being and looks forward to a renewed friendship._

What manner of joke was this? He only knew one Trevelyan. And Lydia Trevelyan had not survived. This must have been a farce, an impostor who'd decided to steal Lydia's identity for political reasons. He stopped pacing the room. A cold sweat broke out across him bodily. What if there was something nefarious at play? A demon? Demons had poured out of the sky from the breach. Perhaps one had assumed the form of ... 

He shook his head, weighing the letter in his hands. A cruel thought tied to a line of rising hope snagged his guts and tugged on his heart. 

It _had_ to be an impostor. Because if Lydia had been alive all these years, why had she not contacted him? 

  
The exchange of letters was far too slow. Sebastian couldn't sit still for long, waiting on a reply to _his_ response. Proof, he needed proof. Perhaps he was right and he had done the Inquisition a favor. Perhaps he was wrong and he ... He couldn't think of why that path did not grant him the joy he'd always wanted. Lydia was a dear friend and if she was alive it was a miracle. 

When he'd left that day, they'd met on the Chantry steps. He'd asked where'd she been during mid-morning prayers and she'd teased him about his youthful indiscretions. Sebastian had set off for adventure, not knowing it would be the last time he'd see her face or hear her voice. 

Now, the torture of not knowing _for weeks_ whether this was a cruel work of the Maker or a gift from Andraste kept him up at night. He could not sleep without picturing that last moment on those steps again and again. It was as if time had reversed and he was back there, to the days and weeks and months after the incident, reliving the pain in his dreams and waking moments. The turmoil he'd felt in being somehow complicit by association crawled under his skin again. He'd been blinded by Hawke's companionship, the reassurance her guidance provided. If he'd not held Hawke in such regard, he'd have reported Anders to the templars far before things would have come to tragedy. 

Seneschal Granger broke his ugly thoughts before they became too spiteful. There was a letter at last and he took it from the man with gratitude. Granger had delivered it without delay. 

He tugged it open, the wax seal cracking with force. As he unfolded it, heart racing, a coin dropped between his feet, clanging against the cold marble. Sebastian glanced down at the object and realized it wasn't a coin after all, but a token. A well-worn token of Andraste. 

She was alive.   
  



	7. Chapter 7

At first, the Winter Palace was a welcome break from the physicality of the field. The swirling music, the beautiful scenery and the scandalous guests. Lydia had returned to a world not too dissimilar from her early youth; vipers at every corner. But the usual turmoil and violence broke out before dancing had even ended. By the night's close, Lydia dripped with sweat. She remembered how much she hated court. 

The return march to Skyhold was torture, every ache in her body screaming out for mercy. All she desired was a warm bath. Fortunately, her role allowed for certain perks the Chantry never did. A sister could never dream of a warm hip bath. Lydia strode into her quarters, dropping her jacket on the back of her couch, pulling the tie from her hair. Two attendants would be up shortly with the tub, then several more with buckets of warmed water. It was not a card she pulled often, but after the Winter Palace she needed this. 

Lydia began removing the rest of her armor. A knock sounded below and she welcomed the attendants in, gesturing over a shoulder where to place the tub. 

"By the fire," she called happily, arranging her breast plate on the armor stand. 

"It really is you." 

That voice. Rich and smooth, an echo from the past. Her hands stilled in place, resting on the cool metal. Solid beneath her fingertips, Lydia was afraid what would happen if she let go. Another person knocked — the attendants this time — and the confident guest told them to come in, to set the tub down and go. Lydia wondered at the certainty in his tone, the easy authority, though this was her domain. She turned to face him. 

“Lydia.” A toothsome smile broke out across Sebastian’s handsome face. He closed the distance between them with large strides, wrapping her up in an enormous hug. 

It felt good there in his arms and Lydia closed her eyes to it, soaking in the sensation. She placed her palms on his back, feeling the muscles beneath. He held her for several moments, and she inhaled his crisp scent and smoothed her cheek against his chest. 

It felt like coming home. 

“Why didn’t you write me?” Sebastian asked. Lydia peered up and he smoothed back her hair, wondering at her face. 

Seeing him was wonderful, but he couldn’t keep the reprimand out of her tone. “I had no idea where you were! Sebastian, you disappeared from Kirkwall, I looked for you as long as I could, and then I left for Orlais.”

"I'm sorry," he vowed. Fingers roamed across her cheek and Sebastian leaned forward to kiss her brow. She regretted when he pulled back. If only he’d kissed her elsewhere. “I thought you had died,” he said, voice raw. “There was no reason to stay. I couldn’t, not after ...” A look of confusion passed over his handsome face, eyes full of doubt. “How did you escape? When I left that morning, you were headed inside the Chantry.”

Lydia looked away, studying the cooling bath in front of her fire. This conversation was going to be uncomfortable for Sebastian. But she couldn’t avoid the ghost of Elthina for the rest of time.

“Elthina threw me out.”

“She wouldn’t have!”

The sharp, hideous laugh that fell out caused Sebastian to loosen his grip. Lydia marched on regardless of his feelings. This had to be said. 

“She did, Sebastian. She may have been your savior, but she was hardly mine. I didn’t need reformation or a sturdy hand. The fact is, Elthina failed Kirkwall. She could have held Meredith in line, spoken to the Divine, asked for a replacement. Anything. I’d raised concerns with her months before that day, after all you’d told me about what the Champion and your friends were in the thick of. The Champion should never have had to play the role she did. That's why I never lead mid-morning prayers. And that morning, I told Elthina there was a line between caution and cruelty, and by doing nothing, she’d waded into deep, dark waters. She told me to leave, that I was no sister, and I agreed. I was never meant to follow that path.” 

The shock of it was clear. Sebastian staggered back and sat against her desk. “I—” he swallowed and closed his eyes. “What you say — I cannot call you a liar. The proof is in your presence.” He opened his eyes again and they felt bottomless, Lydia lost in the sea of blue.

“No, but that does not mean she did not do you right. People are flawed, Sebastian. No one is without their failings.” She touched his arm. “But I don't want to talk about Elthina. She is gone. I know what she meant to you." She changed tracks before they could continue talking about something in which they'd disagree, and for what?

"I’m surprised you came all this way. Don’t you have a city to run?” 

Sebastian rubbed his chest as if she’d wounded his heart. A small smile emerged. “I had to return this.” A well-worn token was produced from his pocket. Sebastian turned it in his hand before raising it between them. “I think I understand better now why you still carry this.”

She reached out and took the token. “You’ve always meant more to me than Andraste, Sebastian.” 

He nodded, taking her hand again. It felt right to touch, to be near after so long apart. Lydia hoped above all that he felt the same. That even though Andraste meant more, that she still owned a small corner of his heart. 

“I’ll not be able to stay long, a day or two at most. But I hope we can spend that time together. Reacquaint ourselves after so long.” He twined their fingers together and her heart raced. “I’ve changed and I imagine you’ve done so as well.”


	8. Chapter 8

They spent the first day walking the grounds of Skyhold, discussing their respective roles. The pride in Sebastian’s voice as he talked about Starkhaven made Lydia smile. He’d always been so uncertain and now it was good to see him set firmly on the right path. The tragedy was that the Chantry had to explode in order for him to see it. No doubt had that not occurred, he’d still be in Kirkwall, absolving the poor. Lydia didn't like to think about that future. 

He'd been very interested in everything she’d shared so far about being Inquisitor, disappointed that he’d missed the Champion by several days. She’d gone with Stroud to the Western Approach. A little dark part of Lydia was glad for it, jealousy coursing through her veins at the thought of Sebastian missing the Champion. It was clear that he cared for Lydia, but he’d not settled what his feelings were for the Champion either. At least through his link with the Champion, Sebastian knew that Merrill was well, still in the alienage. Lydia made a mental note to talk to Varric, apologizing for her strange reaction before and asking for his help in writing to Merrill. 

By the evening meal, Sebastian announced he’d have to leave the next morning, likely as soon as first light. She felt the weight of his departure on her shoulders, pressing down on her heart. It was not enough time, and yet, it was more time than she’d imagined ever getting. Perhaps the campaign against Corypheus would succeed and one day she’d be able to walk into Starkhaven, token in hand like a lodestone. 

Ever the pragmatist, Lydia doubted that outcome very much. 

“I wish you could stay,” she admitted. Lydia sat next to him on the small couch in her quarters. Their fingers entwined; she could feel the beat of his heart in his wrist. It was steady, soothing. Sebastian kissed her forehead again, lips lingering longer than the time before. 

“Were I still just a rogue with nothing but adventure ahead of me.”

What a silly wish. She laughed, shaking her head. “You always had Starkhaven ahead of you. You were just having too much fun to leave.” The way he shifted, a grin on his face, told her she was not wrong. “I envied you so much, you know. Leaving whenever you felt, chasing after the Champion like a young buck. There were so many times I wished that I’d been in your circumstances rather than my own.”

Lydia glanced sideways, watching his face as he looked elsewhere. The air between them grew thick with the pause in conversation. She recounted the words, attempting to track where it’d gone wrong in his head. In the middle of doubt, Sebastian turned his gaze back. 

“You can ask outright about Hawke,” he said. “I think you should.”

She sucked in a breath. 

“Lydia--” 

“Were you planning on marrying her? Or earning back your throne and making her a princess?”

He clasped her other hand and her heart threatened to race out of her chest. “No. I’d had other ideas, but it felt wrong to think so about a Chantry sister.”

“It cannot be that simple,” she argued. Lydia bit her tongue. Why was she arguing this? What did she have to gain by pressing? Her heart leapt in her throat. When she spoke, it came out heightened, rushed. “You know what, I don’t care. I hope you’ve given up those stupid vows.” 

She launched onto his lap, pushing him back against the arm of the couch. With little thought in the matter, she kissed him, pressing against the length of his body with her own. She could die tomorrow, or next week, or the week after that. He’d indicated his thoughts had turned to her alone, and that was all Lydia needed to hear. A little burst of laughter escaped her lips as she kissed him, and the responding grin on his face made her want to do it all over again. His hands smoothed down her back, her sides. The heat between them was undeniable, and she felt his body respond to her advances. Sebastian held her still as she tried to pull back, murmuring against the skin at her shoulder as he moved his mouth to kiss her elsewhere. 

“Are you certain?” she gasped, his tongue soothing a spot that made her shiver.

“More certain than I’ve ever been.” 

He pulled her fully against him again, kissing her until she couldn’t breathe. She didn’t care, laughing and smiling and kissing Sebastian in a test of wills; who would give in first. Somehow they’d managed to the bed, tugging at clothing and plucking off boots. The floor was a mess of clothing; the sheets tossed back, the pillows scattered. There would be time to arrange it all later. Now Lydia needed more of his touch, more of his love. The fire crackled and moonlight flooded the room. The light of both played across his bare skin, a beautiful bronze glow. She kissed his shoulders, his arms, his face, every bit of him she could. If there was to be only one night between them, then she would take as much as she pleased. 

Sebastian nipped her mouth, soothing the spot with a wicked tongue. His attentions varied, keeping her guessing as he explored. Perhaps he’d had a similar one night edict in mind, as eager to know her as she him. The heat between them became hard to bear, his tongue sliding over sensitive places — her breasts, the juncture of her shoulder and neck, between her thighs. She clutched and pulled, eager to have him move against her, and he chided against a leg, accent thick, “I mean to have it all.” Lydia stopped fighting it then, letting him lead whichever direction he wanted. This new Sebastian was one she would miss, the focused, certain one who would spend weeks travelling just to see her again. To touch her, ensure she was really there. 

She choked back an ungainly sound, arm across her face. He traveled upwards and moved the arm away to check her face. “Don’t stop on my account," she said. "I’m just thinking about tomorrow and trying not to sob.”

He leaned down and kissed her deeply, hands cupping her face gently. “I know,” he said, skimming the edge of her mouth. “But we’re here together now. Let us worry about tomorrow when the morning comes.” 

She nodded, feeling her concerns slip back down to the recesses of her mind. After that, there was no more time to doubt. Sebastian moved against her and they joined at last, urgently and perfectly, coming together as one. 


	9. Epilogue

Sebastian stood at the edge of his balcony, watching the sun reflect off the water. The sound of the waterfall always soothed the edges of his mind. Though now nothing could center him. By all accounts Lydia had defeated Corypheus. He could not stop thinking of her, the night they’d shared, the way they’d parted, the promises they could not make. His place was in Starkhaven, hers was in Skyhold. 

Still, he’d heard from her in letters. He’d missed her teasing and the way she always made him feel promised for greatness. Despite her differences with Elthina, she had given the woman some credit for the way he’d turned out. But Lydia’s friendship had shaped him too, provided a warm place to lay out his concerns, his doubts. He never told her he loved her for fear of overstepping. She was a Chantry Sister, and he had no right to expect anything more. It had been a revelation; she thought him hung up on Hawke. A “young buck” chasing Hawke across Kirkwall. In hindsight he had been taken in by the appeal of it, lured by the promise of action, enabling him to delay the inevitable. 

Sebastian sighed, turning back to his room. It may be some time before he held her again. Every passing day meant one day less apart, and he knew deep in his heart they were meant to find their way to one another. He thanked Andraste as often as he could. 

There was a knock against his door. Likely Granger with an urgent task. He pushed back the melancholic thoughts and crossed the room, opening the heavy door with a touch more strength than necessary. 

Lydia stood outside, pack over her shoulder, a glint in her eyes. Relief flooded his veins and he picked her up in a flash, spinning Lydia around the room with delight. 

“Sebastian!” she laughed, voice lifting his spirits. He set her down, but was not willing to let her go. “Are you surprised?” she asked, breathlessly.

He chuckled, brushing hair back from her face. “You cannot tell?”

Lydia kissed him, eager and urgent, and he kissed her back just as desperately. This was the way it was supposed to be.


End file.
